


A Summer For Burning

by thesepossessedbylight



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Boudicca - Freeform, F/F, Roman Britain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesepossessedbylight/pseuds/thesepossessedbylight
Summary: SERENA CAM BEUL METELLA: AMPHORAE ET VINO. It's 61 AD, on the farflung outskirts of the Roman Empire. Serena has built a good life for herself, here in Londinium, where her great-grandfather fought against Caesar, and where her father fought against the Emperor Claudius. Serena considers herself Roman; a fluent Latin speaker, she supplies the finest wine ever produced by Britain to the various Roman officials who visit this godsforsaken place. But Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni, rises in bloody anger against the Roman aggressors, fighting for vengeance against the wrong done to her and her daughters. When the uprising comes to Londinium, Serena must make her choice. Is she Roman? Or is she Briton? And what should she do with the freedwoman and revolutionary, Berenice?





	1. Villa Metella, Londinium

On the door is a bronze plaque, engraved in even lettering: SERENA CAM BEUL METELLA: AMPHORAE ET VINO. It leads to an atrium, spacious and as sunny as this godsforsaken island can ever be. In the atrium there are benches, crowded with clients sitting and standing in their formal tunics, even a few togas. On the walls are the most beautiful murals this side of Cisalpine Gaul: Serena’s pride and joy, commissioned specially from Rome’s most celebrated artist. Two years ago she paid for his travel all the way out to this most remote outpost of the Empire, hosted him for the months and months it took him to paint the murals, inspired by the Lucullan house in Pompeii, all dark reds and vibrant blues. Taking up the entirety of one wall is a portrait of Serena herself, posed like Artemis in the forest, all draped swathes of fabric and wiry strength. She stares out from the wall with a direct gaze, catching and holding the viewer’s attention, dark eyes steely, determined, and there’s the faintest hint of a smirk playing about her mouth as she rests one hand on an amphora, her life’s work and the source of all this wealth. In her other hand she offers the viewer a bunch of grapes, and the artist’s message is blatant, clear: _here,_ she seems to be saying, _partake with me._

Here and there her clients are murmuring among themselves, the most important perched on benches closest to the corridor which runs off the atrium at a right angle towards her office. Some stare off towards the pool which takes up the space at the centre of the atrium, and the household shrine, the _lararium_ , beyond: lest nobody mistake her for a Briton, this house has been deliberately built in the traditional Roman style, and Serena will suppress her prayers to the old Mother Goddess and pray to foreign gods if it will help her customers feel secure. 

For these are not secure times: listen! the clients are whispering among themselves.   
  
“I hear the Iceni make ready their horses, Gaius,” an old man mutters to his son, sitting next to him in a pristine white toga. He speaks in flawless Latin, but his tongue lingers longingly over the clan name _Iceni_ , betraying his origins.

“Hush!” Gaius mutters sharply, fists flexing around his stylus and wax tablet. “This is not the place, Father.” Another man, Conn the builder, clad in his worn tunic, glances over at him with a raised eyebrow and Gaius glares, daring the man to make an issue of it.

“Have you so little faith in our legions?” Conn asks, and Gaius turns in his seat, a retort already on his tongue.

“Even now,” he continues, before Gaius can speak, “Consul Paulinus is in Gaul. If the Iceni bitch makes more of her claims of ill-treatment at Roman hands, Paulinus will wipe out her and all her kind in a matter of days.”

Gaius pauses, eyeing him up and down. “I understand you were granted the contract to lay the stones for the new fortress, here in Londinium. The Legions must be pleased their pet has no need of being commanded to bark.”

Conn flushes, his Briton-pale skin turning a fiery red. “My affairs are my own, Gaius Quintilius!”

“So they are,” Gaius observes, as his father mutters darkly beside him. “But not all of Londinium shares your regard for the great Paulinus. There have been too many rumours of inaction, of delay. Some say Paulinus should never have been given the command; others that there is corruption in that army, even at the very top. No: I think we cannot rely on Paulinus to save us, should Boudicca come this way.”

As soon as Gaius has finished speaking, the room falls silent. It’s not an impressed silence, and he turns around, as slowly as he can, already knowing who he’ll see. 

Serena.

She’s standing by the pool, arms crossed, dark, curly hair bound up in a simple version of the latest fashion, dress falling in graceful folds to the floor. She looks furious, and Gaius gulps, his tongue clicking against the roof of his suddenly-dry mouth. 

“Gaius Quintilius and Marius Quintilius,” she says, in a low tone, and Gaius nearly trips over his toga in his haste to get to his feet. 

They follow her down the long corridor to her office. The corridor has been recently whitewashed, and the walls shine in the midmorning sun, visible through the large windows in her office. Once inside, she closes the door behind them, the sun catching the emerald signet ring she wears on her right hand, the stone chiseled into the shape of a leopard. It’s her legal seal, the one with which she signs all contracts, and the same motif appears on the amphorae she sells: this is the real deal, it says, you can trust this. 

She is the first to sit, settling herself behind her desk, back poker-straight. She has modelled herself on such women as Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi brothers, that paragon of Roman virtue who gave up not only her husband but also her sons, for the glory of the Roman state. From head to toe she is the picture of the perfect Roman lady - but her eyes are a shade too sharp, a touch too direct, and she cannot conceal the quickness of her mind or its cunning. Gaius squirms in his seat, reduced to the awkwardness of an eight year old as her eyes sweep over him, and then she holds out her hand. 

“Tablet,” she says, and he hands it over immediately. She runs her eyes over the columns of figures detailing this month’s wine sales and expenditure, and adds the total in her head. “Good,” she says briefly, handing it back to him, and he permits himself a relieved smile. 

“I apologise for the unpleasantness earlier,” Gaius says, a little uncertainly. 

Serena shakes her head. “Unfortunately, Gaius, I believe you were right.” 

“Madam?” he asks in surprise. 

“I too have heard the rumours,” she says, glancing over his head to make sure the door remains closed. She turns to Marius, who has been watching her from where he is sitting, hunched and arthritic. “You and I had experience, once, of the old ways, and I know Boudicca will not be easily stopped.”

“But -” Gaius begins to argue, and she cuts him off. 

“The Romans believe the Britons have forgotten the old ways,” she says. “It is foolish to think so. Boudicca will not stop until she is stopped by force, and Paulinus is not the man to do that.” 

Marius nods. “Londinium was burned once already in my lifetime,” he says, voice deep like Hades himself, and despite herself, Serena shivers. “Who is to say it will not burn again?” 

The words seem to hang in the early summer air between them, potent and final as if the augers in Rome had already read the sacred entrails and declared it so: this is a summer for burning. On the wall by the door Serena can see the shadows cast by the flowering tree that stands outside her window, the shadows dancing and jumping in the breeze, and the image fixes itself in her mind like a talisman.

It takes an enormous effort of will for Serena to break the silence that feels thick and heavy with the sudden weight of fear. “Make sure we have ordered enough provisions, Gaius. Enough supplies for the business, enough supplies for the house. We will need it.” 

Gaius nods, looking much younger than his twenty-five years, and she feels an upsurge of pity for him. 

When Gaius and Marius leave, Serena turns to gaze out the window. The tall ash tree that stands outside her window sways in the late summer breeze, and she stares through its dancing leaves towards the street paved in Roman cobblestones. A troop of legionnaires tromp past, packs heavy, centurion straight-backed at the head of the column, and Serena’s breath catches for a second, instinctive, uncontrollable. She knows the Romans are here in Britain permanently, and she needs their business, but the last vestiges of her British heritage rebel inside her, hot like flames. She clenches her fist, unseen by her side, and turns away. 


	2. Serena in viam est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena experiences a few personal crises.

The next day dawns grey, merely a few streaks of blue left in the stormy sky. The _clientes_ arrive wrapped in thick woollen cloaks, fragile protection against the British elements. They bring gossip from all over Londinium and beyond, snatched whispers of fear, of dread, and they whisper these rumours to each other while they wait in Serena’s atrium, burrowed into their cloaks. 

Serena waits to talk with them, far beyond the time she would normally begin. Instead, she remains inside her office, standing behind her desk, gazing out of the expertly-glazed window into the street beyond. The street is nearly empty, misty with fine, uncertain rain, turning the cobbles slick and treacherous with mud. It feels like any other British summer, and Serena thinks maybe she was spooked by Gaius’ words yesterday, frightened by his talk of inevitabilities. She begins to turn away from the window, nearly composed enough to summon the clientes in for her customary talks - but at the edge of her vision she senses movement, and she turns her head immediately back to the window. 

Someone is walking down the street.

In the rising wind their cloak is billowing behind them, a sweep of bright blue that Serena’s eyes linger over. The cloak’s hood is up, wrapped tightly around their face, although they’ve neglected to wrap it around their body, whoever it is who’s foolhardy enough to be out when the fine rain looks likely to turn into a summer storm, so all Serena can see is a pair of Briton-style woollen trousers and sturdy sandals. Serena finds herself gazing at the lonely figure for long seconds as they walk down the road and stop outside the little alleyway that leads, through a series of sidestreets, to the forum. They pause, hood still covering their face, but their careful scanning of the street leads them to look directly at Serena for a moment, stormy blue eyes locking with Serena’s own. Despite herself, Serena gasps, gripping the windowsill a little tighter. It’s a woman, with pale skin and bright blonde hair which marks her instantly as a native of this windy isle. She scans the road carefully, without haste, and meets Serena’s eyes again for less than a fraction of a second before she turns, cloak whipping behind her, and walks casually down the alleyway towards the forum. 

Serena stares after her for a few long seconds, as her cloak billows behind her and then disappears into the faint mist descending on Londinium. Eventually, Serena’s eyes move to her own hands, gripping the windowsill with unnecessary strength. She flexes her fingers, letting go of the windowsill and letting her hands drop to her side as she takes a long breath in, then out. 

She frowns, wondering why this woman drew her attention, unable to find a satisfactory explanation, however much she tries. Eventually she shakes her head, her intricately-braided hairdo wobbling slightly, and she reaches towards her desk and snags a few more hairpins, decorated with faceted agate. She shoves them into her updo, her eyes dragging reluctantly and inexorably back to the alleyway down which the woman vanished. Her imagination conjures up the image of the woman in her slim woollen trousers and the easy, loping way in which she walked, and she takes a hasty inward breath.

The door opens with a soft brushing sound, and Serena whirls around, colour rising to her face as if she’s been surprised in the middle of something indecent.

“Ma’am? The _clientes_ are waiting…” her slave girl Caenis trails off, unsure. It’s the first time Serena has ever ignored her visitors for this long, and Serena realises how unusual this must look. She smiles at Caenis as she passes her, a little absentminded quirk of the lips, and Caenis falls in behind her as they make their way to the atrium.

“Friends,” she says in the atrium, and then she pauses. The _clientes_ have fallen silent, and they’re looking at her, gazes ranging from mild concern from Quintus the gardener to real worry on the face of Esup, the old woodworker who had been freed by her father but whose loyalty remained, as always, with her. 

She dismisses the words lined up in orderly queues in her mind, trusts herself to speak faithfully to her own concerns. 

“These are bad times,” she finally says, hands folded in front of her. She casts a glance over the assembled visitors, who are gazing at her in frank astonishment. “We know nothing of the future, or of Boudicca’s plans. It is inevitable that she will try to make an attack on Londinium; it is unknown only when she might do so. We may all have to leave the city in haste, leaving behind our goods, our possessions, our most treasured items.”

She lets her eyes trail over the _clientes_ ; most of them are looking at her in shock. 

“Go,” she says quietly. “Go: prepare yourselves with all haste.”

Despite her words, the clientes leave the atrium slowly, as if unwilling to give up its comforting familiarity. She stands in front of the household altar until the last man has left, casting a silent glance behind him as he closes the door to the street, and then she turns around, sinking to her knees in front of the altar.

It’s a little altar to Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, war, art and commerce. A neat pile of candles lie in a small groove to one side of the altar, along with a pile of sulphuric firelighters. Serena reaches for a candle and lights it, waiting until it’s melted sufficiently to pour a little of the molten wax in the candleholder to stick it firmly in place. She gazes for a long moment at the little bas relief of Minerva above the altar, gazes directly into her sharp, clever eyes and firm-set lips, and bows her head in prayer.

But to her surprise the words she mutters aren’t to Minerva at all. Her lips form the words independently of her mind, and she says, “O Brigantia, who protected my people in their time of most dire need, protect us now, save us from she who would seek to destroy all we have created, all we hold dear. As you saved my grandfather’s life when the Italian conquerers came, save us now from one of our own.” Her eyes fly open and she stares at the marble floor in front of her: it’s the first time she’s prayed to her tribal goddess in over three decades. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged her British heritage in nearly as long. 

She stumbles to her feet, arising awkwardly and nearly tripping over the long edge of her dress. There’s an old shawl draped discreetly on a post behind a large chair, and she wraps it around her hastily before she makes for the door. She opens the door and glances back, prompted by dread, low in the pit of her stomach: wind rushes into the atrium and the candle on the altar flickers once, twice, and gutters out. A thin trail of black smoke rises in erratically-widening circles from the candle as the wind whips her shawl back in her face and she loses her grip on the door. It slams shut, and she’s left standing on the street outside.

She stares at the door for a few long seconds as the wind plucks at her hair, wrapping long strands across her face. She pushes them back as she turns around, stepping off the street kerb to cross the road. The wind is strong enough that she has to hunch her shoulders and squint to keep walking; but soon enough she reaches the alleyway which leads to the forum. It’s bounded by the high brick outer walls of the houses on both sides; normally she’d never walk down here by herself, because a Roman lady should not skulk, should not travel unaccompanied, should not conduct business in the forum on her own behalf… She hesitates a moment, socially-accepted rules marching through her mind like a chant, and she nearly turns back - starts to turn her head back towards the door of her villa, in fact - but in her mind’s eye she sees the black smoke rising towards heaven from the guttering candle, as if Brigantia herself heard her prayer, and she plunges into the alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More a content warning than anything else, but this story does inevitably contain some depictions of slavery. Everyone had slaves at this time if they could afford them, there’s really no way to get around that without being majorly historically inaccurate, unfortunately. If this (rightly) squicks you out, please don’t feel obliged to read. I will say however that there are no depictions of violence against slaves as a result of their condition as slaves. (The major TWs for this fic are likely to be around war-based violence, more than anything else. I haven’t planned everything out in detail, but if other TWs come up I’ll flag them at least the chapter before.)


	3. Serena in Foro Circumspectat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena meets Berenice, who's not who she says she is... (then again, neither is Serena)

The forum is nearly empty when Serena emerges from the alleyway; the wind, always a harbinger of a coming storm, must have driven people home. On one end of the forum, the large basilica - the law courts - stands deserted, everyone either huddling inside out of the weather or gone home, to prosecute their cases another day. On the forum’s opposite end stands the Temple of Jupiter, built solid for the ages in stone and marble. Above the main entrance a statue of Jupiter rears, the broad figure resplendent with toga and beard, lightning bolts held aloft. For a culture insistent that Britain is not a conquered country, that the old tribal chieftains willingly gave up their sovereignty in return for trade, baths, and a postal service, the Romans are superb at stamping their mark on Britain. 

Gavrus Sageatus, the banker, waves from his kiosk in the middle of the forum, and Serena - always keen to cultivate business contacts, no matter the weather - walks over. A slim man with sandy blonde hair and beard who managed her father’s accounts before she took over, he’s stacking accounting tablets on a shelf out of the rain. He’s always supported her, even when her own family frowned on the idea of their daughter taking over the family business, and in return she’s always banked with him. 

“Windy, isn’t it?” she asks, with the joking lilt he’s come to expect after so many years of friendship and business.

“Bad times,” he says, shaking his head as he neatens the stacks of tablets. 

She raises one eyebrow. 

“These are bad times,” he says again, and her breath catches in the back of her throat for a second before she calms it through force of will alone. 

She hums, less a word capable of meaning than a noise of vague distress. “Boudicca?”

“Paulinus,” he says, and his expression is suddenly thunderous as he glares in her direction. 

“The General?” she asks in surprise. “I heard he was in the south, pursuing the druids at the sanctuary of Mona.”

“Aye, and us in such need,” Gavrus says bitterly. “That man would let the world burn if he thought it would give him a strategic advantage.”

Serena nods. She supplies all the wine for the fort here in Londinium, and - as it does in military settlements all around the Empire - word travels. Paulinus is no friend to his soldiers, according to legionnaires’ gossip: a hard taskmaster, uncaring of his soldiers’ needs, and - some whisper - corrupt. 

There's a flash of blue at the edge of Serena’s vision, and her eye is drawn to it as naturally as breath. She’s moving away before she thinks, abandoning Gavrus at the kiosk. He calls after her, and she turns her head to call an apology, but when she looks forward again the blue is gone. She picks up speed, running recklessly through the forum as the mist finally descends, covering the stone buildings with a coy patina. 

Visibility is low: Serena can only see a few feet in front of her, but she continues running, trusting in her knowledge of the forum’s layout not to trip over one of the layers of steps that border each side of the forum. All she can hear is the sound of her own footsteps, and it feels as though she’s entirely alone, running through a forgotten, abandoned landscape.

Out of the mist, a set of four massive pillars loom. Behind them, a doorway, ajar. Serena realises she’s run all the way from Gavrus’ kiosk on the southern side of the forum to the Temple of Jupiter, on the extreme northern side. She pants for breath, loud in the suppressive quiet of the mist, and walks up the steps to the doorway.

Serena has never stepped foot inside the Temple of Jupiter before: all the major rites are conducted outside the temple, in the full glare of public scrutiny in the forum. How can you trust that the omens are correct unless the augurs conduct their blood-drenched rituals in public? Inside, the temple is a large, echoing, empty space, with high, small windows that cast squares of grey light upon the marble floor. Towards the back the altar stands in empty, isolated grandeur; behind that there is a double-life-size statue of Jupiter which echoes that placed on the roof of the temple. The statue’s lightning bolts are foiled in silver, and the weak light that trickles through the windows catches on the bolts’ tips, making them sparkle. It’s nearly enough to send Serena to her knees in prayer from reflex alone - but she notices another, smaller door beside the giant foot of Jupiter and heads for it on instinct. She pushes it open, wincing at the sharp creak it makes as it grinds against the floor. Behind the door is a corridor, narrow and low-ceilinged, and at the end of the corridor is another door, halfway open, and silhouetted in the mist-filled gap between door and jamb is the shape of a woman. 

The woman’s cloak is wrapped closely around her, familiar like a lover’s hands, and her hood is up so Serena is unable to catch a glimpse of her face. But messy blonde hair escapes from the side of the hood and when Serena’s eyes trail down the woman’s body she notices worn leather sandals. Serena feels frozen in place, one hand on the side of the door, toe nearly, but not quite, over the threshold of the corridor, and it seems that the other woman feels likewise, standing in rigid position at the end of the corridor, face turned half away as if she’s afraid to move. The temple remains shrouded in silence. Neither woman moves. 

The woman’s shoulder twitches, in a quick jerk of terrified breath, and Serena says, “Hey!” and the woman whirls away from the corridor into the garden beyond, and Serena’s feet are loud on the stone floor and she’s still breathless and she rips the door open and pounds after the woman and - 

There she is. Standing in the garden, shoulders heaving, face averted. But the hood has slipped slightly, and Serena catches another glimpse of that bright golden hair. It feels like something stolen, something precious, and she tries not to wonder why that might be. 

She approaches, the most cautious she’s ever been.

“Serena,” she says carefully, as she begins to draw nearer to the woman. “My name is Serena.” 

The woman steals a glance in her direction. Dark eyes, thin expressive lips. Serena’s breath catches. 

“I have seen you before in this town,” the woman says, eyes curious on hers. “Serena Cam Beul, the wine merchant. You should not be here.” She begins to draw the hood back over herself, obscuring that beautiful golden hair. “Go; I have wasted too much time already.” 

Serena shoots out a hand, acting on pure instinct. It lands on the woman’s upper arm, grasping her the way soldiers grasp each other, in the brotherhood of war. Abruptly the woman whirls back, breaking Serena’s grip on her arm and backing her into the shrubbery, one hand on her shoulder, one on her midriff. They stand frozen, eyes locked on each other, as the place where the other woman’s hands touch Serena grows warm. With slow movements, so as not to alarm the other woman, Serena’s hands float to occupy the space between them, and then they land on the other woman’s shoulders. Serena feels hard, ropy muscle across her shoulder blades, and the other woman’s eyes flicker shut for the most brief of moments. 

“What’s your name?” Serena murmurs, as quietly as she can.

The other woman’s eyes shiver open, gazing her lips, and the words sound as if they are dragged out of her. “Berenice.” There’s a long pause, and then her eyes slip shut. “I know no other.” 

“Why are you here?” 

“She is coming.” 

“Who?” Serena asks, although she realises the answer with a sinking heart an instant before Berenice speaks.

Berenice leans towards her, the movement of her lithe body graceful like the living personification of a silhouette on an Athenian black-figure vase, one sandal-clad foot between Serena’s. 

“Boudicca,” she whispers, eventually, into Serena’s ear, and Serena shudders with the sharp pleasure of it as Berenice’s fingers curl greedily around her waist. It's all she can focus on, those long fingers warm and strong at her waist, and the name Berenice spoke is entirely forgotten as Serena tries to remember how to breathe.

When cognition returns to Serena it’s like a club over the head on a dark night in an alleyway, and she shoves Berenice away with both hands, feeling a wave of nausea rise up within her. Berenice stumbles back, and her dark eyes flash momentarily with something like shock. 

“ _Boudicca?_ ” Serena hisses, and she throws her weight forward so she’s no longer hidden among the shrubbery. “You thought I would betray my people for a woman who has no true claim to power? After everything I’ve done, after the _years_ I’ve spent at the service of Rome - ”

Berenice’s eyes narrow, and she crowds against Serena, toe-to-toe, on the edge of the shrubbery. Serena can feel the anger radiating off her, hands clenching at her side, and something inside her welcomes Berenice’s rage.

“You are a Cam Beul,” Berenice says, eventually, voice sombre. “You owe the Roman invaders nothing.”

It’s such an unexpected statement that it startles a laugh from Serena, sharp and entirely without humour. “You really think that,” she says, her lip twisting in contempt. “You really think it’s that easy. And where have you been, all this time, with your Greek name and your blonde hair - ”

She trails off, understanding dawning as Berenice’s expression becomes grim.

“I bought my freedom,” Berenice grits out between clenched teeth. “I bowed to the Roman sword for as long as I was compelled, but no longer. It’s more than I could say of you - you capitulated, you made money off the invaders, learned their ways, their sly, lying tongue.”

“I should have you arrested as a runaway slave,” Serena spits in return, and she means it, in the moment she says it, but Berenice _freezes_ , and she regrets her words instantly. 

“You would not,” Berenice mutters, but it’s hesitant, afraid, and Serena’s anger dissolves and she grasps Berenice’s arm, by her elbow.

A door creaks open, somewhere deep within the temple. Serena turns immediately, craning to hear the noise more clearly, but Berenice remains stock-still, gaze frozen on Serena’s hand.

“I have to - ” Berenice shuts her mouth with an audible snap as they both hear the distinctive sound of a door creaking closed.

“Go,” Serena whispers urgently, using her hand, still wrapped around Berenice’s arm, to push her backwards. Berenice stumbles, grabbing at Serena’s arm for balance, and when her eyes meet Serena’s they’re wide and dark with fear. She backs away, and Serena moves with her because in her panic, Berenice seems to have forgotten she’s still grasping Serena’s arm. 

“What will you say?” Berenice whispers. 

Serena shakes her head.

“Please!” Berenice says, a little louder, and Serena’s stomach plummets through the ground as she realises there are tears in Berenice’s eyes.

“I won’t,” she whispers, eyes scanning Berenice’s face, and she smiles, calm and reassuring.

Berenice blinks, and raises her hand to trail her fingers gently across Serena’s cheek, and then - 

then she’s gone, whirling away in a taut flurry of movement, blonde hair obscured once more by the dark woollen hood, and Serena is alone in the garden when the priest of the Temple of Jupiter pushes open the door she left ajar. 

“Madam!” he says, horrified by her female presence in this most male of precincts. “Please, use the path by the side of the temple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea whether this is Too Gay for a first meeting. I've lost all perspective with these two (or should I say, I lost all perspective a LONG time ago). Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Historical notes:   
> Chapter title = Serena looks around in the forum.  
> Gavrus Sageatus = Fletch(er). Sageata is arrow, and I’m a punny asshole.
> 
> I should say, on a political level: I’ve studied Roman language, culture and history for over a decade now. I’m by no means an expert (if you want an expert, I recommend SPQR by Mary Beard; she’s the best), but I do have very specific opinions. With regards to the Iceni revolt, I’m firmly on Boadicea/Boudicca’s side. I believe it’s Tacitus who gives us our best contemporary(?) understanding of Boudicca, although he can’t be taken as absolute truth and he tends to support the Roman actions at this time whenever possible. Anyway, Tacitus tells us that King Prasutagus, Boudicca’s husband, was king of the Iceni tribe. He died in ~60/61AD, and in his will, he gifted half the Iceni kingdom to Boudicca, and half to Rome. Now we don’t really have any explanation for this. Some people think that he wanted to make sure of the Iceni people’s continued survival by cozying up to a larger power, and that’s probably reasonably accurate. Anyway, Rome - being Rome - looked at this and said, “LOL, we’re gonna take the lot. Who’s gonna stop us? That bitch Boudicca??” The story goes (and I can’t remember if this is in Tacitus or not - it might be another contemporary historian) that when Roman soldiers arrived to depose Boudicca, things got majorly out of hand and Romans gangraped both of Boudicca’s teenaged daughters and flogged Boudicca. (Big yikes: you don't flog a queen.)
> 
> Big problem: Prasutagus didn’t actually have any right to sign over half his kingdom to the Romans. Under Iceni law, Prasutagus was only king because he was married to Boudicca (that is, they had a matrilineal succession system). After Prasutagus’ death, therefore, the crown automatically reverted back to Boudicca - who was now pissed as hell at her dead husband, and absolutely raging against the Romans. So, of course, she and the Iceni revolted.

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone, I'm back!!
> 
> a few historical notes for y'all:  
> Metellus was the name of one of the oldest and most prestigious patrician families in Rome. Serena's family (the Cam Beuls, which is the Gaelic spelling of Campbell) managed to get themselves 'adopted' by the Metelli, which could help explain part of her influence in Londinium. Money talks, but in Rome, prestige talks more.
> 
> I've studied Latin for over a decade (don't ask me to translate shit; I'll scream at it for ten hours instead) so I'm gonna give all the chapters Latin names bc why the fuck not
> 
> Names: Conn is obviously a British name; Gaius and Marius are obviously Roman. In a setting like this, where Britain was more-or-less Romanised only twenty years before, some people would have taken Roman names; some people would have kept their names.
> 
> More info to come on Boudicca and the status of women in Roman society - both of which are fascinating topics in their own right - but I need sleep right now so that will be l a t e r.
> 
> I hope you enjoy; please let me know what you think!! (Even just incoherent keysmash will make me grin at my phone <3 )


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